Melting snow. That the day before crippled cities only harmless water now.

We are just the biproducts of our insecurities.

Flirting with happiness like a stranger in a bar. As if she'd ever go back to our place no matter how drunk we got her.

Nineties Metallica. What an interesting phenomenon. Sometimes the songs grow with us. And we are secure. More often we grow and they remain stunted. Overcompensated artists consumed with an ancient formula that once made them stars. And we are stranded. In the silence that follows them since.

Trying to remember. How to make the words. The film instead of the camera. Developing as they do in utter darkness. Moments snatched away from the passage of time.

Poet. Alcoholic. What's the difference? Friend. Lover. Enemy? I need a better way to define all those ghosts that dance in my attic.

And the folding stairs that lead up to. Like a slow motion death sentence.

This film is black and white, but I need color. This lens is autofocus. Too accurate.

What I need are some blurry images. The kind that let you remember things, not how they were, but how you would've liked them to be.

Are we not photographs. If nothing else. Images burned into pliant pages. Shadows falling in such a way that we can still see those ghosts.